Storm Comin'
by Ciggie Stardust
Summary: AU. Set after the events of S3. Character vignettes, mainly based in New York and Philadelphia. Work in progress. Classified K for now for language, *may* change to M in later chapters because of adult themes. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1 - Kid

Storm Comin'

_Set after the events of Season Three, this is just a fictional Alternate Universe story. It's made up of chapters that are either told from the perspective of a character, or feature them as the main person in that chapter. It's recommended that you read them in order, and you can request character chapters in the reviews. (This is a work in progress). There will also be an Author's Note after every chapter._

_Of course I don't own any of this stuff, this is all copyright Terence Winter, HBO etc. etc. And I play fast and loose with history. _

READING, Pennsylvania - Kid

"You gonna eat that?"

Eli shunted over to Mickey his half-devoured Philly Cheesesteak, wincing as the tall Pole wolfed it down.

"How can you eat those? All that cheese."

Mickey wiped his face with a napkin. "How can you not eat it?"

"I maintain a healthy diet. I'm back to my fighting weight thanks to June. Hey, I ever tell you I used to box?"

"Was your fighting weight when you was Sherriff?"

"Yeah."

Mickey giggled. "But back then you were fat."

"Fit enough to punch a man to death though. You send Hans Schroeder my regards."

Mickey tossed his napkin back onto his plate and hurrumphed. "This ain't an appropriate topic of conversation for lunch."

As Mickey excused himself to go to the men's room, Eli kept a look out for a red Cadillac. Nucky had told them that was Max 'Boo Boo' Hoff's vehicle. Nucky and Hoff had spoken only yesterday, and Hoff had assured Nucky that the Red and White Diner in Reading was a safe spot – Hoff owned it. There would be no questions. Just to be safe, Eli and Mickey had chosen a booth near the back, away from the other patrons.

Whilst Mickey was away, a white pick-up and a thin fellow on a bicycle rolled into the diner car park, but there was still no sign of a red Caddy.

"Hey."

It was the bicycle man. Or kid. Eli squinted. It would have to be a kid. A kid dressed in a black suit, like an undertaker.

"Are you Eli Thompson?"

"Yeah… who are you?"

"Name's Sydney Carlton, but everyone calls me Kid. I work for Mr Hoff, he sent me in his stead."

She held out a hand to the mystified Eli. Mickey came back, whistling. He stopped when he saw Kid.

"I'm guessing you're Doyle. Hiya, the name is Sydney Carlton, but everyone knows me as Kid. Max Hoff sent me to meet with you."

She held out her hand, but Mickey, much like Eli, was too stunned by her appearance to take it. She shrugged, and put her hands in her pockets. A waitress came up to their booth.

"What can I get for ya Kid? The usual?"

"Sure, thanks Clarice, that would be swell." The older woman scribbled down something on her pad and then waddled away, chewing gum.

Kid didn't wait for an invitation, she simply sat down in the booth, in Mickey's spot. (He chose a new spot next to Eli, both of them opposite her). She took off her black felt bowler hat, revealing long dark hair that was pinned behind her head in a French knot. Her only cosmetics were mascara and face powder. Her angular features, straight brows and solemn expression made Eli think of a falcon, and he smiled slightly. Hoff's falcon, out on a hunt.

"You wear a suit," Mickey blurted. "And ride a bicycle."

"Sure. I'm packing. Hoff's got it sorted with the cops, and folks 'round here know I don't pull out my piece unless Gordon's rats are creeping around. Which isn't very often, not around Hoff's turf. I collect Hoff's debts, and sometimes pick up certain shipments, from the shore."

"But why a bicycle?"

"Can't drive. When I need a car, I got somebody who can drive. Sometimes I hitch a ride with Boo. That's Mr Hoff, to you fellas. Oh hey, thanks Clarice."

Clarice came over with a sarsaparilla. This time Eli couldn't help but smile, looking down at his hands as Clarice took away his plate. The Kid rode a bike and drank sarsaparilla. Jesus Christ.

"Uh huh." Mickey nodded, but he still looked perplexed. Eli decided to take over and do the talking.

"We're here on behalf of Nucky Thompson. He wants to do business with Hoff. Waxey Gordon's getting greedy."

"He has been sweating since you fellas put Rothstein, and by extension, Rothstein's pockets, in the hoosegow after the Battle of the Boardwalk."

"'Battle of the Boardwalk'. Is that what folks call it around here?"

"Well, it's what I called it first. It made Boo Boo laugh, now that's what he calls it. Now it's what everyone calls it."

The subtext was not lost on Eli. He flicked his eyes towards Mickey. Mickey still looked like somebody had banged him on the head with a hammer. Whether it was Kid's cross-dressing or the sheer amount of beef sandwich he'd consumed, he'd shut down for the day.

"Rothstein's getting out in a week. You and Boo could use a friend against Waxey."

"Nucky strikes me as a 'fairweather friend' kinda guy. Seems more like he needs bodies to shield Rothstein's bullets," said Kid, sneering slightly. She took a sip of her sarsaparilla. Eli was still on the fence as to whether she was creepy or comical. He decided to settle on both.

"Look. You scratch our back, we scratch yours. We help you against Waxey, you help us against Rothstein. Everyone wins, as far as I can see."

"Nucky doesn't give a tin shit about anybody winning except himself. He's pissing his britches about Rothstein and Waxey teaming up and getting revenge for that brewery debacle, and so now he wants to be pals by trading Pimms. Never mind all the blood that's been shed in battles for Jewtown territory since Horvitz kicked the bucket. Didn't hear a peep out of him then."

Kid didn't even talk like regular woman. Whilst other women had sweet, high pitched voices, Kid spoke at a rat-a-tat clip even as her face remained cool and stony.

"It's not just liquor. He'll happily pay Hoff for powder."

'Powder' being the code word for cocaine.

"Money for powder isn't what Boo is after, and you know it."

"Nucky will also give him a casino on the Boardwalk."

"And in return Boo will give him a 'get well soon' card when he gets his ass kicked."

"You speak for Hoff?"

"Sure, I'm his lackey that runs his errands. What are you two to Thompson? Carrier pigeons?"

You little shit, Eli thought to himself, watching Kid as she drained her glass. Pigeon or falcon, she knew something they didn't.

"Hoff will never get the brewery."

"Then I bid you good day."

"Rothstein and Waxey together, they won't just come after Nucky, they'll come for you too."

"Me? They'll come for me? I'm just a kid on a bicycle, drinking a soda. I don't speak for Hoff."

"Then let us speak to him!"

Eli had spoken louder than he'd meant to, and some people turned around to stare. Kid's expression didn't change. Mickey touched him on the shoulder, and Eli shrugged it off. His neck was red, and his ears were burning. It had been six months after the events of Margate Sands, and Atlantic City was still vulnerable. Chicago was preoccupied with a gang war between the North and the South, and New York was a powder keg. Luciano and Lansky had expanded their territory into the Garment District after partnering up with 'Dopey' Ben Fein, and were rumoured to be casting their gaze towards Hell's Kitchen, ruled by the influential Owney Madden. Worse, Masseria had gone quiet. He was biding his time.

And now Rothstein was out of jail, thanks to the wily Bill Fallon. Whoever won out of the upcoming melee that was predicted to erupt between Rothstein, Masseria, and the Garment District gang was bound to strike Atlantic City sooner or later. Nucky had very few friends in New York.

So, Eli and Mickey had been instructed to make friends with Max 'Boo Boo' Hoff over in Philadelphia. A simple plan, if not for the girl who dressed and spoke like a man twice her age opposite them. She wasn't an adolescent, but she couldn't have been anything over twenty.

She reached into her pocket, and pulled out a carefully folded piece of paper, and some change. She counted out two nickels and placed it on the table, for her soda. Then she slid over the piece of paper two them.

"Mr Hoff is having a party this Saturday. I strongly suggest you attend. Nucky Thompson as well. Gentlemen."

She picked up her hat, and tipped it to them before exiting the diner. Mickey finally spoke as Eli studied the details on the invitation she'd given them.

"She planned that."

"What?"

"She planned to give us the invitation all along. Nucky should come to the party."

"Nucky wants to follow up this lead of Chalky's. Narcisse, in Harlem."

"He'd be better off seeing Hoff in Philly."

Eli committed the invitation to memory and then ripped it up, glaring at Mickey.

"Why?"

"Because Hoff is in league with Rothstein."

The other man stated it so casually that Eli had to let his words sink in.

"What? How the fuck did you know that?"

"You and I was there when Nucky talked to Hoff on the phone. He never mentioned Rothstein and Waxey – _she _mentioned Rothstein and Waxey. All we know is that Hoff is having a pissing contest with Waxey and wants Mellon's brewery. We don't know that Waxey and Rothstein are still workin' together. Before this meetin', that was just a guess for us, given their history. But she played it as fact. And you fell for it."

"That little shit," Eli breathed. "That's their fucking ace in the hole."

"Yup." Mickey leant back and linked his fingers across his stomach. "They know Waxey won't work with Nucky, but now they knows that Nucky _and _Rothstein want to work with them. It's just a matter of who dangles the bigger carrot."

Mickey smiled at Eli, who was looking at him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

"You crafty asshole. Letting her play me."

Mickey giggled.

"Yeah." He turned to the window, and his giggles grew higher pitched.

"Look at her pedal on her _bicycle_!"

Author's Note

Even though Max 'Boo Boo' Hoff was a real person that operated out of Philadelphia, Kid is obviously fictional. I just really wanted to have a female gangster in the story. Even though Hoff was a bootlegger, he may not have dealt in cocaine, I just put that in the story as it may have a role to play later on. Also, I can't for the damn life of me remember what the heck Mellon's brewery was actually called, so, if anyone could help me out in the reviews, that would be great.


	2. Chapter 2 - Rachel

The Garment District, NEW YORK - Rachel

It had been only a minute, but it felt like an hour. Charlie Luciano tapped his finger on the car's window sill. Benny Siegel had rolled his head back and was staring at the roof.

"Easy now, easy, easy…"

"I got it, Jesus."

"Okay first of all, that's what you said the first time, and second of all, don't say 'Jesus', it makes me - and your mother - uncomfortable."

Rachel Lansky rolled her eyes at her brother.

"DON'T TAKE YOUR EYES OFF THE CAR!"

Crunch.

"Ah, fuck."

"RACHEL!"

"I wouldn't have hit it if you hadn't yelled at me, you big dick!"

"STOP SWEARING."

Benny and Charlie started to laugh as the Lanskys shouted and bickered in the front seats. The problem was that Rachel could barely peek over the steering wheel, being of tiny build like her brother, and she'd been attempting to parallel park. And she insisted on wearing Meyer's old newsboy cap, even though it was bent out of shape, the bill crooked.

Charlie got out the car, and checked out the damage. They'd indeed hit Ben Fein's car, but it was a broken tail light, nothing more. Their car was barely dented, and it was stolen, anyway. Disguised with a new lick of paint and license plate.

"Rach."

Rachel looked up to see Charlie toss a small bundle of money into the Coupe. Winter was changing to fall, and Fein drove with the top down. She beamed, even as Meyer continued to glower.

"All sorted. Now come on, I got to stretch my legs. Rach, you drive as fast as a greyhound. At a taxidermists'."

Rachel bounded out the car and socked his stomach, but Charlie just laughed. Rachel was a fifteen year old waif, her punches were little more than taps.

"Rachel, get back in the car. Wait there," said Meyer, exiting the car with Benny.

"Oh come on, it's just a factory."

"It's a factory where we're going to have a meeting, a meeting that involves businessmen, not drivers. Drivers stay in the car, _yes_?"

Rachel knew she had lost, so she sullenly climbed back into the driver's seat, watching the three of them climb the steps and enter the nondescript factory. She pulled out the book she'd been reading, Upton Sinclair's _The Jungle, _but she couldn't focus and so put it back under her seat.

She hoped Mr Fein wouldn't be too mad about the car – she loved being the driver. She'd been enraptured by the idea of cars after her family had come to America, and she'd seen women driving. And now it was fashionable for flappers, or 'flaps' as Rachel called them, to zip around New York in their cars, going out for lunch, to the salon, to shows on Broadway. Cars meant _machers_. Cars meant money.

Her other brother, Jake, was stupid – he just ran Meyer's old poker game in the Lower East, content to just sit there and watch grown men grumble about cards and chips. Rachel wanted to go deeper into Meyer's 'secret life', the one that they made sure Mama didn't know much about. Rachel and Jake now lived with Meyer, their mother living in a nice apartment near the park thanks to her eldest's work, 'working in insurance, for Mr Rothstein'. (Of course Mama Lansky had followed the Rothstein brewery case very closely, and during every Sabbath with her children, never missed an opportunity to rail against Andrew Mellon's 'vendetta' against 'that utter gentleman'.)

Rachel wanted more than cards. She wanted the bank rolls, the guns, the night clubs, the seedy deals in Chinatown, the suits from Paris. As it was, she got paid a salary of ten bucks a week, and Meyer had point blank told her that she was not even to wear trousers, let alone suits. Charlie had bought her suit pyjamas as a joke, but like everything and anything she got from Charlie, she treasured them, and only wore them on special occasions, with her best perfume.

She watched people walk along the street, eyes bright underneath the cap. Meyer had allowed her his old hat, and accepted that she wore dressed that skimmed her knees over her stockings. He was slowly adjusting to her Louise Brooks bob. (Her mother had cried). Maybe one day he'd allow her to be in his gang, to be by his side. She wouldn't be a kid to him anymore, to him _or _Charlie. Maybe.

Author's Note

Even though there really was a Jacob 'Jake' Lansky, Meyer's plucky young sibling Rachel is entirely fictional, and created for the purpose of the story. Louis 'Lepke' Buchalter and Jacob 'Gurrah' Shapiro, who were gangsters in the Garment District, were real people, however during the time period they would have been actually working for Jacob 'Augie' Orgen instead of Ben Fein – I just found Ben Fein to have more potential to be an interesting character. Also, he was technically nicknamed 'Dopey Benny', but during the story I refer to him as Ben Fein to avoid confusion with Benny Siegel.


	3. Chapter 3 - Margaret

Broadway, NEW YORK - Margaret

"That is just _lovely_."

"You're not just saying that?"

"No, of course not! Except if you'll allow me…"

The shop assistant carefully adjusted the cloche hat on her client's head. The client turned left and right in the mirror, studying the hat's new angle.

"You know, I like that."

"I know hats." Margaret Rohan smiled, confident in her third sale of the day.

Margaret Rohan – formerly Margaret Schroeder, then Margaret Thompson – had carved out a life for herself and her children after fleeing Atlantic City, her former lover's butchered remains in a box and her unfaithful husband becoming unbearable. She had an apartment in Brooklyn, and every day commuted to Broadway to work in Henderson's Millinery. Emily had been enrolled in a Catholic elementary school, and Teddy had been sent off to boarding school. Aylesh came over to visit sometimes, but nobody else from her family. Margaret didn't push it.

The first month or so had been hard, of course. She'd pawned her jewels, but money had still grown tight before she found work. Emily and Teddy still had trouble understanding why they weren't living with their step-father anymore, and Teddy had begun to grow so wild that Margaret hoped boarding school would sort him out. Emily was worse though – she had grown quiet and solemn.

Margaret was reflecting on a picture Emily had drawn that morning when the client was gone and the shop was silent. It had been rain clouds. Emily had refused to talk about what it meant.

"- and you can't tell me that this is an occasion to be missed. There's going to be everybody there. There's going to be August Belmont Jr. there. _Clara Bow _will be there."

Two men had entered the store. One of them was tall and wiry and energetic, silver hair slicked back. His companion was dark of hair and pale, and even though he was dressed in fine clothes, and the scent of good quality cologne lingered about him, he seemed drawn and tired. A small crease appeared in the middle of Margaret's forehead. He seemed familiar.

"I'll send my apologies to Mr Hoff. I simply have too much to do in New York."

"First task of course is buying yourself a new hat. New man, new hat. Miss, could you find us a selection of fedoras? No – derbys. It must be derbys."

The tall man's companion was gazing out the window, his back to Margaret. In Margaret's opinion, he didn't seem to want to be a new man. He looked like a man who just wanted to be alone. She wished she could remember who he used to be, but his name and face escaped her.

She selected four derbys – one dove grey, one navy blue, one black, and one cobalt. The tall man took one look at the cobalt one and said, "No. Cobalt is awful." Margaret put it back, hiding her irritation underneath a mask of simple politeness. Even though she understood that living an honest life for an honest day's pay was appropriate for a woman with God in her heart, not being able to politically outmanoeuvre people – or at the very least, slap them – _vexed_.

"I had a cobalt coat once," his friend said mildly, and he turned around, finally taking a look at Margaret. He blanched, and Margaret froze. He knew who she was, and yet she _still _couldn't place him. But she was married to Nucky at the time, she knew that.

He quickly re-arranged himself, trying to look nonchalant again. As his friend yammered away about summer fashion and the upcoming Parisian Olympics, Margaret tried to avoid his eyes. Finally his friend shut up long enough to announce that he wanted the dove grey hat.

"And you, Arnold?"

"I've never been partial to derbys, myself. They don't suit me, and they remind me too much of a past associate."

Margaret's stomach lurched as it all fell into place. The man was referencing Mickey Doyle, one of Nucky's lackeys. He had interrupted her last conversation with Owen, and looked at her curiously the night Nucky had called a gang of rogues to the Ritz to try and help rid him of Gyp Rosetti. Arnold – Mr Rothstein – had apparently been there, but Margaret had not seen him. She had only met him once, at the 1923 New Year's party. He had spoken to her briefly, but kindly, complimenting her on her golden headpiece.

Arnold's friend was looking at her expectantly, and she blushed. She quickly put the other hats back on the stand and rang up his purchase on the till.

"That will be forty dollars, sir."

"Forty dollars! A bit steep for a hat, don't you say?"

"They are individually handmade by a professional milliner, sir."

"By who, Rumpelstiltskin? He uses golden thread?"

"Bill." Arnold pulled out a wad of money held together by a sterling silver clip the way magicians pulled rabbits out of hats. He pulled out a fifty, and handed it to Margaret. She felt the heat rising in her face, and she tried not to touch his fingers. "You look impressive in a court room when you argue, in a hat shop you simply look like an ingrate."

"Mis – sir, this is too much."

"Keep it." He paused, and Margaret filled in the blank.

"Miss Rohan."

"Miss Rohan. I apologise for my friend, Mr Fallon. I'm Arnold Rothstein."

He offered his hand, and Margaret shook it. The shop suddenly felt stuffy and claustrophobic. This was absurd.

Ignoring his friend's raised eyebrows and slight smirk, he gave Margaret his card, and complimented her earrings, which were small gold baubles.

"Thank you."

"You're most welcome. Gold suits your complexion."

It was the same thing he had said to her on New Years' Eve.

"Yes. Thank you."

He and Mr Fallon left. Margaret waited, then went to watch them walk away down the street, through the door's glass window. Fallon looked carefree, twirling his new derby on his pointer finger, animatedly talking. Arnold listened, hands in his coat pockets. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Margaret turned the 'Back in Five Minutes' sign around so that it faced the door, walked into the back room, pressed a handkerchief to her face, and cried. But whether it was for herself, for Emily, for Owen, for Nucky, or even for Arnold Rothstein, she could not say.

Author's Note

I know she's not everyone's cup of tea, but I'm a Margaret fan. I wondered what she would do in New York, and thought of course – a hat shop. Girl knows her hats.

What _will_ happen between her and Rothstein? Keep reading!


	4. Chapter 4 - Mickey

PHILADELPHIA, Pennsylvania - Mickey

Mickey Doyle squinted as he took a drag on his cigarette, the heat in his lungs a nice contrast to the crisp night air. He was on one of the numerous balconies of Max Hoff's enormous Venetian-style mansion. He was the only one there, his back pressed against the wall, staying as far away from the edge as possible.

He didn't like leaving Eli inside to deal with all the coked-out phonies, mercenary businessmen, _actual _mercenaries and drunken party girls, but he was about to crack. So, he did what he always did when he could feel his temperature rising, and headed outside to focus on his 'coping mechanism'.

The first time Mickey had been in jail, he'd been charged with assault with intention to kill, sentenced to five years in juvie. He'd managed to get out in two, thanks to good behaviour. Looking back, he hadn't been smart, but he hadn't regretted taking to his old boss with a tire iron, either.

Mickey had left school when he was thirteen, but he wasn't an idiot. He just thought it was a waste of time. He was skilled in mathematics, but kept it a secret, as the other kids gave him enough grief as it was for being poor, Polish, and Jewish on his mother's side. So, he'd gone to work at a mechanic's, keeping track of the books, and doing basic work like cleaning. It wasn't the best situation – as a child he'd dreamed of being a scientist, like Zygmund Wroblewski, the guy who'd invented nitrogen – but money was money.

But his boss, old Gribaldi, had been a real piece of work. From morning to evening, he' be on Mickey's case. He took a certain delight in verbally taunting him, in English or Italian – Mickey was an idiot, he was gangly, he was a no good Pollack bastard, he was part kike so he was probably mooching cash from the till, he didn't work hard enough, his father was a worthless drunk, his mother couldn't sew clothes worth a shit, he giggled like a girl, hey, Pollack, perhaps I ought to put you in some skirts, you'd be the spitting image of your horse-faced moth-

Thwack.

And that was it. Gribaldi had looked stunned, even as blood gushed from the scrape on his cheek and two teeth had been dislodged. When Mickey went to swing again his instincts took over and he curled into a ball, but Mickey still managed to break some ribs and make Gribaldi walk with a limp for the rest of his life.

It had been cathartic, but stupid. When Mickey got out and began life anew as a bootlegger, he'd almost cracked again – if Nucky hadn't intervened Jimmy Darmody would have had a bullet in his brain in 1919 instead of 1921 – but after that, after finding himself back in jail, he'd played it smart. There was no way in hell he wanted to be back behind bars when he could be out building an empire, and so now for every indignity he faced, he simply went inside himself, tuned out. He thought back to the day when he'd slammed the tire iron into Gribaldi's face, except now, depending on circumstance, the face changed. Nucky, Darmody, D'lessio, Horvitz, Harrow, Van Alden, Rosetti, Sherriff Ramsay. After fantasising about turning them into naught more than crushed skull and blood, Mickey cooled down, and got back to work. Working at staying alive and slowly but surely climbing the ladder, as the others died around him, or at least lived lives of misery.

"Hey. There you are."

Mickey was shaken out of his reverie by the appearance of Eli. Eli straight away reached for his packet of cigarettes, and Mickey generously handed over his lighter.

"Thanks. Jesus, what a crowd."

"Yeah. And we thought Kid was bad – Hoff's a fucking lunatic."

"He's a grating son of a bitch, that's for sure. You out here, uh, doing your 'thing'?"

"It was that or shoving his cigar down his throat."

Mickey and Eli shared a small smile of solidarity, even though the subject matter was decidedly morbid. If you'd asked Eli Thompson a year ago if he'd ever end up friends with Mickey Doyle, he would have probably rewarded you with one of his patent looks of contempt. But, slowly but surely, the men had grown used to each other, and now enjoyed each other's company.

Things had started to change when Owen died. Eli had not really known the man, but he could sense that Sleater's death had affected Mickey. At the warehouse, Eli would sometimes look up to see Mickey looking slightly sad or lost, as if expecting Owen to be there to offer advice, or at least make conversation. It occurred to Eli that Mickey was, at his core, a very lonely person. He didn't speak with any of the other workers except to bark orders at them, and the workers in return treated him with more resentment than respect. Owen had not only been his equal, but had also taken the time to just talk to Mickey politely. Eli, in his previous life as a sheriff, hadn't really trusted the ward bosses or his deputy completely, (for good reason), but at least they'd had a camaraderie. And his relationship with Nucky, whilst antagonistic more often than not, could lead to some good times. As boys they had been thick as thieves. As far as he could tell, Mickey didn't have siblings. Eli wasn't even sure if his parents were still alive.

So, that Christmas, when June traditionally made boiled fruitcakes for their family and friends, Eli asked her to bake one extra, and gave it to Mickey.

"The hell is this?" Mickey had asked when it was just the two of them in his office, the rest of the men allowed to go home early on Christmas Eve.

"It's a fruitcake. Whaddaya think?"

"Yeah, but why are you giving it to me?" Mickey had turned the cloth-wrapped baked good over and over in his hands, looking at it like it was an Egyptian artefact.

Eli had shrugged awkwardly. "Y'know. We work together."

"Well… thanks Eli. You have a good Christmas."

"Yeah, you too, Mick."

That February, when it was Eli's birthday, Mickey returned the favour by giving Eli a pewter ashtray, and a card signed, 'your pal, Mickey'. Touched, Eli had made more of an effort to get to know the man, and discovered that he was more decent than Eli had previously thought. He could still be an annoying prick at times, and Eli knew that Mickey's ambition when it came to business was legendary, but he found that they could get along. Mickey surprised Eli by being interested in _National Geographic _and home renovation, and Eli often made long journeys in the car more interesting by sharing amusing anecdotes about his large brood of children.

One of Eli's goals was trying to find Mickey a wife, or at least a steady girl. It depressed him to think of Mickey spending his nights alone in his house, either re-reading old _National Geographic _magazines or obsessively filling his home renovations scrapbook with photos of light fixtures. Eli confessed to Mickey – after three of four beers, it must be said – that he'd suffered from insomnia and nausea in prison, the homesickness for June and the kids unbearable. He didn't understand how Mickey could stand it – his family was his life. Mickey had just shrugged non-committedly, and mumbled that sometimes he went back to Gray's Ferry to visit his mother (his father had died of cirrhosis years ago). A week later Mickey told him about Gribaldi, the crowbar, and 'his coping mechanism'. They had begun to trust each other.

"You good?"

"Yeah." Mickey dropped his cigarette and ground it out on Hoff's marbled balcony, taking a perverse pleasure in doing so. "But if he shoots one of them tin foil balls at me, so help me God."

Max 'Boo Boo' Hoff was as loud and brash as his offsider Kid was cool and cunning. A portly middle-aged Jewish man, he'd welcomed them with open arms to his house… seconds later asking who exactly they were again. He then proceeded to state afterwards, _pridefully_, that he had no idea who half the people were at his grand party, but, "I know all the important ones, and there are some _very_ important people here." His face fell with disappointment when he realised he didn't recognise who they were, because he wanted "the _other _Thompson brother". He only gave Mickey's hand the briefest of shakes, mouth curled in distaste.

"Didn't you have business with the D'lessio brothers?"

"Yeah, but that was before –"

"I thought so. Now, Ellis, please tell me where your brother is."

"It's Eli. He sends his apologies, he's been called to New York to meet with Dr Valentin Narcisse – "

"HARLEM? He's missing out on my good food and champagne to go to _Harlem_?!"

"The matter was urgent, because of –"

Eli felt Mickey kick him in the ankle, and was grateful. He'd been about to say because of Rothstein's release. Max Hoff noticed, however, and his eyes narrowed. Kid was the falcon, Hoff was the vulture, and they were simply the carrier pigeons. Eli mentally cursed his brother.

"I've heard enough," Hoff said abruptly, turning away. "Come, dear Sydney, I want you to meet a friend of mine, a hysterical fellow by the name of Wodehouse. Maybe he'll even get _you_ to smile! Ha ha! Won't that be the day?"

The rest of the evening was spent futilely trying to get Hoff's attention once again, but he alluded them. His mansion was crowded with people high on cocaine, booze, heroin, and as Mickey muttered drily, "the smell of their own bullshit". There were bankers, judges, baseball players, boxers, journalists, radio announcers, actors, dancers, directors, debutantes, and anybody who could get past Hoff's security with a fine suit or a pretty face. There were strictly no firearms or other weapons, but Mickey and Eli were still taking it easy on the hard stuff. Just because they didn't see Rothstein in attendance didn't mean he didn't have eyes or ears at the party.

It was nearing midnight, and Eli and Mickey had still hadn't been able to corner Hoff. Even worse, they discovered he had an extremely annoying habit – he liked to get small balls of tin foil, and shoot them at unlucky guests with a slingshot. His favourite target of the night seemed to be Mickey. There would be a short stinging sensation as a small projectile hit him in the face, followed by peals of laughter. When Mickey realised what Hoff was doing, Hoff chomping on a cigar and winking at him from the top of the stairs as his cronies laughed around him (except for Kid, she was as serious as always), he'd stormed outside to do what Eli referred to as 'the thing'.

The party was still in full swing when they came back. Whilst other men were content to have living rooms, Hoff had a massive ballroom, complete with a jazz orchestra and chandelier.

"If only we had a camera, we could send pictures to Chalky, help him with ideas for his new club," Eli joked. Mickey just continued to sulk, looking around enviously at the palatial estate that must have put Hoff back thousands, if not millions, of dollars.

Eli was about to say something else, but was distracted by Kid coming up the stairs. She was alone.

"It's now or never buddy, come on." He yanked Mickey over to her.

"Hiya fellas." She'd swapped the sarsaparilla for a cigarette and the black suit for a silk silver dress, which accentuated her grey eyes. She was too severe looking to ever be pretty or cute, in Eli's opinion, but she had a regal look to her, which was not entirely unpleasant. "Mr Hoff was worried that you'd left the party, Mr Doyle."

"As if he'd care."

"Oh, he cares. I wouldn't take the tin foil thing to seriously. It's like a hazing ritual. He used to shoot me with them all the time. Ow!"

"Still do," Hoff chortled as he came up behind Kid, smuggling the slingshot back into his suit jacket. He placed a fatherly arm about her shoulders, smiling at her even as she hissed and rubbed her ear. "Oh please, they're nothing compared to real bullets, and you know it."

"If you don't mind me asking, how old is Miss Carlt- ?"

"Sorry it's taken awhile to get around to you, fellas. It's not easy being the most powerful man in Philadelphia." He chuckled, hands on his fat stomach. Mickey and Eli swapped glances. Asshole.

"Now please, I would love for you to join myself and my dear Sydney in my parlor. I think we have a lot to discuss."

Because of course an asshole like that would call his office his 'parlor', Mickey thought to himself. He caught Eli rolling his eyes, and grinned, giggling quietly.

Hoff and Kid has started up the stairs, one of Hoff's hands on the banister, the other on Kid's shoulder, helping to steady her as she tried to climb and keep her dress hem away from her feet at the same time.

"Well, this is an improvement," Eli said quietly to Mickey as they followed after them.

"Mm." Mickey was preoccupied looking at the way Kid's backless dress swished. Eli raised his eyebrows. Improvement indeed.

Author's Note

I make no apologies – I love Mickey Doyle. There's of course the humour element – that giggle! – but I just find the hidden layers to the character fascinating. In the pilot he couldn't recognise a Shakespearean quote but he could rattle off how to make bootleg alcohol as quickly as you please, and is often seen book-keeping the cash that goes in and out of his distilleries/warehouses. I'm not saying he's a scholar, but he's clearly got something ticking away back there. (And I couldn't help but make a small obscure joke about Wroblewski – without nitrogen, there wouldn't be nitroglycerin, aka the main ingredient in dynamite. And I don't think Mickey's a huge fan of dynamite).

As for making him part-Jewish, that's just me taking a guess. He didn't know if deer are kosher, but somehow he must have known Manny, and called him by his Yiddish name. The real Mickey Duffy did go to jail for two years for assault and grew up in Grays Ferry, but obviously I did take some liberties with his background. But anyway. Viva la Mickey. (And Eli).

As for Max Hoff, apparently he really did have Gatsby-style parties where he only knew half the guests, and shoot little tinfoil balls at people. Fun guy.


	5. Chapter 5 - Rothstein

Manhattan, NEW YORK – Rothstein

Rothstein leaned over his desk, a fingers on his temples, propping himself up with his elbow. His protégée-to-be, the young Arthur Flegenheimer, glared at him from the seat opposite. He was only seventeen, but still.

"Are those _really_ your best clothes? What's that on your collar? Is that a mustard stain?"

"It may be mustard. I got hungry. I had lunch." Flegenheimer straightened his back, looking at Rothstein as if he was prepared to have a showdown over a lunch stain. From what he'd heard about the boy, he probably was.

"I hope you understand that if you are going to work for me, you will attire yourself appropriately."

"It's a suit, ain't it? I got it good, got a bargain. It cost me twenty bucks – jacket _and _pants."

Rothstein blinked slowly.

"From now on you are going to spend _twice_ that amount on silk shirts."

"You got to be kidding me! Only a chump spends that amount of dough on clothes. Besides, I think silk shirts are for _queers_." He pronounced this statement as if he were God giving the Commandments to Moses.

Rothstein very slowly swished his aspirin, dissolving in his milk, and took a sip. The boy was as wild and arrogant as Charlie had been, if not even more so.

And the boy, Arthur Flegenheimer, was all that he had left. Since being released from The Tombs, he'd discovered that he was officially _persona non grata _in the underworld. His betrayal of Luciano and Lansky had made waves, and then he'd gone and been hoodwinked by Thompson, a man who barely had a pot to piss in these days.

But he had a brewery, Rothstein thought biliously as his head throbbed. No – he still _has _a brewery, thanks to his friends in Washington.

This is New York though, Rothstein reminded himself, picking a fig out of the bowl on his desk and beginning to peel it, content to let young Arthur stew for a little. I won it once, I can win it again. All I need is the odds in my favour.

He studied the short youth in front of him. Arthur's greasy, sandy hair was combed back, and he had wide blue eyes and a weak chin. His elfin features contrasted with his stocky body, and Rothstein guessed that he'd become fat in his middle-age, if he managed to make it that far. He was a long shot, but Rothstein was a man who actively sought out the hardest odds, as anyone would tell you.

"Alright, never mind the suit. Tell me about your business. That's what matters, isn't it?"

Arthur's mood changed from defiance to pride.

"Damn right Mr Rothstein. I got a fleet of trucks, all of 'em delivering my beer from the Bronx to right here in Manhattan. I got speaks loyal to me – anybody who don't take my beer knows that they'se gonna wake up the next morning hurt or worse. BANG! I shot a man in Canada and I could do it again, ya know. I used to rob crap games, I ain't scared of shit. Am I allowed to say shit in here?"

"I'd prefer it if you didn't."

"Yeah yeah, alright alright. So, uh… that's it. It's only beer for now Mr Rothstein, but ya know I wanna look into expanding. Being the Beer Baron of the Bronx is alright for now, but I want more."

Rothstein finished peeling the fig, and placed it on a small saucer. He'd eat it later. He smiled indulgently at the boy.

His 'fleet' was three trucks, and he stocked only twenty speaks. He may have called himself the Beer Baron, but as Bill Fallon had sniggered to him, most folks derided Arthur as the Boy King. Fallon had become acquainted with Arthur when he'd had been dragged before a judge for burglary at the age of fourteen. Arthur's lawyer had been Dixie Davis, but he'd told Fallon to be in the audience, promising him a show. And a show it was – Arthur had been so crazed with rage after he'd been sentenced to do time on Blackwell's Island that he'd tried to attack the judge. They managed to subdue him, but not before a stenographer received a nasty bite to the forearm.

"He sounds like a lunatic," Rothstein had muttered as they met for lunch at Lindy's three days previously, Fallon eager to tell him about a potential alliance with 'the Boy King'.

"Oh don't get me wrong, Arnold, the kid's a fucking nut. But you can't tell me that he doesn't have some street smarts. A year out and he's already carved out a territory for himself in the Bronx. The place is a shithole that nobody else wants, true, but seventeen years old and in charge of a warehouse and a brewery… Hell, what was Luciano doing when he was seventeen? Hustling fruit vendors for change."

"Charlie was never the more dangerous one," said Rothstein. "At Arthur's age, Meyer was parlaying with Chalky White."

"And almost getting his face shot off."

"That wasn't the boy's fault."

"My point is – "

"I know what your point is, lawyer Fallon. I'll have him summoned to my offices."

He'd left Bill there to take the cheque. Lately he was enjoying Fallon's company less and less. And, he'd begun to notice that Bill was drinking more and more.

"Good." he said to Arthur, in the present.

"Good what?"

"That's a rather interesting resume. You have ambition. But I ask you Arthur, would you describe yourself as an impatient man?"

"Well… sometimes, you know, I can't wait for the beer to cool, and so I drink it warm. Don't hurt nobody, warm beer. It's real good in weather like this."

"I assume it is."

"You don't drink?"

"I like to stay sharp."

"More money in your pockets if you ain't suckin' down your own stocks, right?" Arthur laughed, and Rothstein smiled wider. The boy was vicious and feral, but Rothstein would be able to groom him. He'd learnt from his experience with Meyer and Charlie. Still keep the reins tight - but now he'd give his pet a sugar cube every now and then.

"You've got quite the gift for comedy, Arthur."

"Aw, nah," Arthur itched his waistcoat, and Rothstein wondered if he had fleas. "I'm at home more on the streets than the stage."

You don't say.

"Well, I've decided that you shall be my protégée. You can be as tough as you like in the streets, but indoors, I expect you to conduct yourself like a gentleman."

"Yeah, sure thing, Boss." Arthur was afflicted with the thick quack commonly found amongst the New York lower class. His sentence sounded like, "Yee-eh, shaw fing baws." Rothstein decided to send him to the same elocutionist he'd sent Charlie to. Meyer hadn't needed much work – straight away he'd tried to copy Rothstein's speech, and went to Shakespearean plays to study the actors' diction.

"Boss?"

"Hm?"

"I's said, did ya wanna come down and see the brewery?"

"On Monday. It's the end of the week. Go out and celebrate your new position and salary."

Arthur bounded from his chair and vigorously shook Rothstein's hand, promising that he'd be the best 'prodajay' that he'd ever seen, and that he'd even make sure to use a napkin when he ate lunch so as not to stain his suits. Rothstein just nodded. With his luck Arthur, pumped on adrenalin, would get himself stabbed in a bar brawl.

The door closed, and Rothstein leaned back, closing his eyes. He was supposed to be at Hoff's party tomorrow night, but had declined, lying about needing to have a meeting with Fallon about his casinos in Saratoga. The truth was he would be seeing a lawyer – Carolyn's. They were dividing his assets in the wake of the divorce.

He didn't particularly like Hoff, anyway. He found the man to be abrasive. He'd much rather deal with his bastard daughter, who was as smart as Hoff was showy, but the way that they operated was that he'd have to talk to both of them or not at all.

The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Excuse me… Mr Rothstein?"

He swallowed, recognising the Irish lilt.

"Mrs Thompson – no, I'm sorry, it was Rohan now."

"Yes. Margaret Rohan. I'd like to take you up on the offer to talk, if it's alright with you."

"Of course, of course. I can meet you on Sunday. Come to my house."

"Oh no, I could always meet you at the Algonquin."

"I apologise if inviting you to my house was too bold."

"Oh no, I just didn't want to inconvenience you. Oh, that does sound silly if you invited me over already, doesn't it?"

"Not at all, Ms Rohan," he said quietly, sensing her distress. He gave her the address, and told her to come over at two, for tea and apple bread. He placed his fingertips to his forehead once again once she'd hung up, and found that there was a light sheen of sweat.

Author's Note

Of course, young Arthur Flegenheimer was better known by a different name in history's annals, but I'll leave it for you to Google, if you smart cookies haven't figured it out already. And yes, he was arrogant, scruffy, sent to prison at an early age (the bit about biting the stenographer was my little embellishment) and operated a beer brewery out of the Bronx. He's a colourful little character, and for story purposes I lowered his age, to make him more of an apprentice to Rothstein.


	6. Chapter 6 - Meyer

Hell's Kitchen, NEW YORK – Meyer

Meyer watched his sister carefully follow the car in front, and felt stirrings of pride. She was doing well. The streets were clogged with traffic, Saturday night in the city that never slept, and Rachel had never driven in these conditions.

He knew why she was putting in so much effort, though. She and Charlie had worn him down, and she was going to go with them to meet Owney Madden, over in Hell's Kitchen. In the car in front were Ben Fein, Jacob 'Gurrah' Shapiro, and Louis 'Lepke' Buchalter. They had been Meyer's biggest concern. Rachel still got nervous around Benny Siegel, and the Garment District crew had killed far more people than Benny. Another difference – a big one – unlike Benny, they were out of Meyer's control. But, as had Charlie pointed out, they didn't _need _to be controlled. They were professionals. They knew what they were doing. But this had only caused Meyer to be more afraid.

Lepke and Gurrah were tall, lumpen men. Gurrah growled and sloped and was practically unintelligible. It was up to his friend Lepke to translate his grumblings. Lepke was polite, reasonable, and often stopped to think before he spoke. But he was also capable of slowly dripping acid on a man's face as he hysterically screamed without batting an eyelid. As a 'warning'.

The acid idea had been Ben Fein's. In his youth he had acquired the nickname 'Dopey' because he had an eye condition that made it look as though he was half asleep, or high on opium. He played this to his advantage often, walking with a sway, smiling genially at nothing, and his voice was nothing more than a low, easy drawl. He had ten years on the rest of them, and those years had been spent in brawls, shoot outs, and riots. He'd become more cautious and shrewd – he was still a sadist, of course – but now he had Gurrah and Lepke carry out his dirty work as he charmed workers in his factories. Meyer had to hand it to him – he had certainly improved conditions and wages, and even with heavy lids he had been blessed with a handsome face. The female workers adored him, and he chased even more skirt than Charlie.

But underneath the façade, Ben Fein was as ruthless as they came. Meyer and Charlie had been there when the Garment District gang had cornered a guy skimming from the top. Ben Fein had played him like a fiddle. Just when he thought Lepke was coming over to let him go, he got an ice pick through the throat.

"Throw him in the incinerator we got downstairs… you know, the industrial one. There you'll find some bleach too. Clear up the blood. Hey you Park Avenue fellas… let's go to Adler's."

Just like that.

The cars pulled up towards a two storey speak easy. Some good time girls and flappers were standing around on the porch, and Rachel tried not to be distracted. Thankfully she didn't have to parallel park, and the newsboy cap had been replaced with a sparkly headband.

"Maybe I should stay here."

"Why?" Charlie leaned over from the backseat. "Don't tell me you're getting nervous because of some hoors."

"Charlie, don't call them that," Meyer admonished.

"Hooooooors!" He hooted at Meyer, making Rachel giggle. "Come on Rach, they ain't nothin'."

He got out the car, and Rachel quickly followed him. Meyer sighed, and then exited himself. Charlie loved women, and women loved Charlie. Problem was, Rachel was a lovesick girl, not a woman. Charlie and Meyer had talked about it, and Charlie had solemnly sworn never to go there, and Meyer believed him. Charlie was family. Problem was, he couldn't help but be a brother to Rachel, whom he adored, and Rachel couldn't tell the difference.

His concerns about Charlie vanished in a heartbeat however, when Ben Fein sidled towards them.

"So now… this must be Rachel Lansky. How do you do, little lady."

"I'm well, thank you," Rachel was nervous, but she stood her ground, and straightened her shoulders. She had done as Meyer asked and worn a light shawl around her shoulders, and not too much make up, making her look her age. At that moment, he adored her.

Charlie came up behind Rachel placed a protective hand on her elbow. He was taller and stronger than Ben Fein, and Fein knew it. Meyer adored them both.

Ben just smiled one of his genial smiles, drawled, "Pleasure to meet you," and walked over to where Lepke and Gurrah were standing. Meyer's fear turned to cold anger. It was a game to him.

"I got a weird vibe from that guy," she whispered to them as they made their way to the speakeasy, The Red River. "Do you think he's still upset about the car?"

"No Rach, it isn't that," Meyer sighed. "It isn't anything. It's just the way he is."

"Those other fellas didn't come along and say hello."

"They probably just don't see the point. They know who you are, you know who they are."

"That's an odd way of dealing with people."

"Well you just be on your best behaviour when you meet Mr Madden," said Charlie. "He's British, and real fancy."

"Like how Mr Rothstein was."

"Yeah."

Like how Mr Rothstein _was_. Meyer had introduced them at Rachel's Bat Mitzvah. Rothstein had given her a pearl necklace as a gift. He'd given Meyer a gift as well, for no other reason than because he'd felt like it.

Rachel understood why Meyer and Rothstein didn't talk anymore, and if anything, felt even more anger towards the man than Meyer. Meyer knew it was a personal betrayal, yes, but it was also a business decision. All Rachel saw was a man that had been like a father figure reaming her brother and getting her beloved Charlie beaten up. All three Lansky siblings – Meyer, Rachel and Jake – had promised not to say anything to Mama though. Because if they said Meyer no longer worked for Rothstein, then eventually the reason why would come out. If Mama knew about the heroin, it would kill her.

Their alliance with the Garment District gang saved Meyer from awkward questions – he now owned a garment factory and store. Mama didn't think it was 'as important as working in insurance for Mr Rothstein', but she'd accepted that her son was still putting bread on the table for her siblings. Rachel 'worked as a salesgirl', as Jacob 'managed the garage back in the Lower East'.

Meyer had been slowly but surely investing in real estate, anyway. Charlie had his brothels and his heroin, Meyer had his garages, his warehouses, his card parlours and of course, a garment factory, a 'gift' from Fein. Meyer preferred Rothstein's gifts, but it would have to do.

Their group was ushered in, and they walked into a speak that looked a lot better on the inside than it did on the outside. Red leather seats, cherrywood tables, ornate burgundy and gold wallpaper. An old blues record played. Men played darts, and both men and women were playing pool. As one of the women leant over to take a shot, her friend slapped her on the ass with his pool cue. She squealed and he laughed. Ben Fein looked to Rachel, and winked so subtly that Meyer almost missed it. He _didn't_ miss it, though. And he found himself doing what Rachel called 'scary face'.

"Scary face?" He'd exclaimed, when she'd told him. It had been the night Meyer had finally revealed what Rothstein had done to him and Charlie. The Lansky siblings had eaten dinner in silence, and then later that night Meyer had found Rothstein's pearls in the trash, and heard Rachel sobbing in her room. So, he'd invited her out to the roof.

It had been a big deal – previously, Rachel had never been invited to the roof. The roof was Meyer and Charlie's place, not even _Jake _had been allowed on the roof. But, there she was, lying by her brother's side, the both of them sipping beer and looking at the stars. Meyer hadn't allowed her to smoke a cigarette though – she could smoke when she was sixteen, when he'd started.

She'd asked him how he felt about Rothstein, and Meyer answered honestly – he'd been hurt. He wasn't a boy, he was a man, and he knew how the world worked, but it had hurt.

"It's just so sad," Rachel had said. "I thought he loved you, Meyer. Not like the way you love Charlie, but different."

Instead of replying Meyer had tipped back the beer bottle. He was afraid that the next time he spoke Rachel could tell he was choked up. _I thought he loved me too, Rach._

"I bet you did a real mean scary face when you found out though."

That's when Meyer had demanded to know what 'scary face' was.

"You know, when you can see the whites of your eyes, and you look all crazy. And you do this thing where you grin, and if you're REALLY mad, your teeth are showing."

She then showed him 'scary face', much to his mortification.

"I do NOT look like that."

"You do too! And the thing is, it's even funnier because I know you can't help it."

Those words came back to him, and Meyer fixed his face back to normal. Charlie was over with Rachel now, and they were talking to Lepke. That was good. Lepke was a sociopath, but he was at least very loyal to his lady.

"Ah, if it isn't my old friend Ben Fein."

Owney Madden swept in from a back room, a sleek black woman on his arm.

"Killer… it has been awhile."

The called Owney Madden 'the Killer' after he'd brazenly shot a man in the street and then announced his name for the world to hear. He was judged and tried for another murder, but he had been released a year ago. Ben Fein had told Charlie and Meyer, 'the Park Avenue' boys, that he and Owney had been fighting side by side in the Five Points since they were ten years old.

The men clasped hands warmly, and then Owney introduced Ben Fein to his lady friend, Stephanie 'Queenie' St. Clair, the woman who ran the numbers racket down in Harlem.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Fein," she said coolly. She had a French West Indies accent, and was dressed in a crimson kimono-style dress. Meyer thought that she was striking. Charlie of course thought she was a whole lot more than just 'striking' and as a result Rachel felt a stab of jealousy so sharp it was like she'd just hastily swallowed icy water.

"And this is your new gang, I presume." Madden spoke with a brisk British accent.

"Yeah… you know Lepke and Gurrah, the fellas that used be 'the Gold Dust Twins'. And these here are the 'Park Avenue' boys… formerly serfs to one Arnold Rothstein."

"I see." Madden came over to them, and they introduced themselves.

"This little lady doesn't seem like a boy to me."

"I'm Rachel Lansky, um, the driver."

"Life has moved on so quickly since I have been away. Women – they can drive, stay out late, and even vote now!" Madden shook his head. "They're going to rule over us you know, one day."

"We already do," said Queenie. Owney turned up the corners of his mouth at this, and drew her a little bit closer to him. Meyer guessed that they had been together for a while now. Charlie would have his work cut out for him if he was going to try and lure her away.

"Please, let's be seated. I assume that there is a lot to discuss now that the pompous old cheat has been released from the Tombs." Madden and Rothstein had a very cold relationship owing to Rothstein once hustling Madden at pool, costing Madden hundreds. "Bartender, I'll have a whiskey sour. The lady will have her usual claret."

"Vodka," said Ben Fein.

"Beeryafuhrrtuh," Gurrah growled. Lepke translated: beer for two.

"Canadian Club," said Charlie.

"Same," said Meyer.

Rachel took a deep breath.

"I'd like champagne – on the rocks."

As the others nearly cried with laughter, Meyer told the bartender that perhaps he could just get Rachel a sweet white wine instead. Rachel just stared at the ground, hands balled into fists. She hated everyone and everything. No, scratch that – she hated Rothstein most of all. He was the reason why she and Meyer had to deal with these people.

Author's Note

Owney Madden and Queenie St Clair are real people in history, however it's very doubtful they had a relationship. (Like Arthur Flegenheimer, I also lowered Queenie's age for the story).


	7. Chapter 7 - Rothstein

Chelsea, NEW YORK – Rothstein

Right on time, the doorbell rang at two. Rothstein, who had been arranging a vase of flowers on the dining table, quickly smoothed his hair back and then opened the door to greet Margaret.

She looked lovely, as always. She was wearing a fawn coloured coat over a cream blouse and deep purple skirt. Underneath her black felt hat her hair was styled in a chignon. As he helped her out of her coat and placed it on the coat stand, he wondered how somebody as odd looking as Thompson had managed to woo Margaret. She didn't seem to have the look of a gold digger – she was too classy.

Carolyn had been classy too, said a small voice at the back of his mind before he shushed it. He didn't want to think of Carolyn, not now.

"You have such a lovely house," Margaret said, genuine awe in her voice.

"It's exactly the same as it was when it was built, back in 1885," said Rothstein, pulling out a seat at the table for Margaret. "Carolyn wanted to do some work on the second floor, but I like it the way it is."

Margaret looked at her lap, and Rothstein couldn't believe his blunder. He was a gambler to the bone, and not a minute had gone by and he'd mentioned his ex-wife.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, please, don't be, I expected this to be just a social visit, nothing more. Is Carolyn your wife?"

"She _was _my wife."

"Oh."

It was going from bad to worse. Rothstein could talk rings around men, outsmart men, intimidate men of twice his wealth and stature with just a raised eyebrow. And yet around women he was as nervous as a schoolboy around a nun.

"Hello, this must be your cat!"

"Oh yes, yes it is! His name is Meower. It's a play on the uh, Jewish name."

Meower was a skinny grey cat with big yellow eyes like orbs. Constantly looking for affection, he jumped up into Margaret's lap and began to purr.

"We have a dog, Scruffy," Margaret told him, her smile (thankfully) returned.

"We?"

"My daughter, Emily, lives with me. My son Teddy is at boarding school. Emily's spending the day with her Aunt Aylish."

"I see. I will return, I'm just going to make tea and fetch the apple bread."

He removed the spiced apple bread from the cake stand and began to boil the kettle. Even though Carolyn had informed him whilst he was in prison that she couldn't take the strain anymore and was leaving, it had still been a shock to come home and try to do things for himself. He was too proud to hire a maid; however he did pay somebody to clean the house whilst he was at the office. The rest of it – taking his clothes to the dry cleaners, taking out the garbage, making his own bed – he did himself. He even insisted on looking after a cat, to keep himself occupied and to try stave off loneliness.

Cooking was still something that eluded him, but he was at least capable of buying his own milk, butter and Vienna rolls for breakfast. Other than that he would eat out at restaurants, cafes, and diners. The apple bread he had bought earlier that day from a bakery. It wasn't a patch on Carolyn's, but it would have to do.

"Alright now, off you go Meower."

Margaret lifted the cat off her lap and onto the floor, and straight away he had scampered over to Rothstein, meowing and winding himself around his master's feet.

"Come on now, you can go to your basket." Rothstein sat down and drew in his chair close, so that Meower couldn't sit on his lap. Meower resolutely decided to curl up underneath his chair instead.

"There's nothing quite like an animal's loyalty, is there?"

"They do make fine companions."

There followed a period of brief silence, as they both sipped their tea and took slices of apple bread for their plates. Margaret was the first to break it.

"I left Nucky in the summer of 1923, although I should have done it earlier," she said quietly. "That life… I didn't want it. Not for me, not for my children. Everything that man touched turned to ash."

Rothstein resisted the urge to touch the small silver scar on his face where the piece of shrapnel had hit him the night Babette's had been destroyed.

"Mm. It's a world that can certainly take a toll on the women, those that lay awake at night wondering if the next day they'll be a widow."

_I don't want any more sleepless nights, I don't want the secrets, I don't want the loneliness, I don't want YOU, _Carolyn's note had read.

"Nucky's world is of his own making," said Margaret, bitterness permeating at the edges. "He doesn't see people, he sees political props.

"I'm sorry for what he did to you," she said suddenly. "You wanted no part of his war, and yet you were a casualty anyway."

Rothstein paused before he answered. There was what he wanted to say, and what he should say. He didn't want to push this soon, this early.

"Mr Thompson made me an offer that I should have refused, and I didn't. He betted right – I betted wrong."

And now that I'm back, he thought, carefully cutting a wedge off of his apple cake with his dessert fork, I'll be sure to always have a back-up plan.

"Your sentiments are kind, however, Miss Rohan," he added when he saw that Margaret looked worried she might have offended him. "You know, you are quite unique. I was struck by your grace and poise at Thompson's New Year's Eve party. Most women who dalliance with men in our line of work are the opposite of that – they are flighty, and of loose character."

Rothstein remembered when he'd gone to see Billie Kent – to congratulate her on her new show with Eddie Cantor, no more, no less. She'd flirted with him so obviously that he'd left in under five minutes – the whole display had been shameful and crude.

"You are too kind, Mr Rothstein."

Rothstein stirred another sugar cube into his tea, heart pounding. She was beginning to relax. It was going well.

"I was raised with manners, Miss Rohan. I am also a philanthropist, of sorts. If there's anything that you want or need for you or your daughter, please, do say."

Margaret looked as though he'd just offered to skin and gut Meower and serve him as the main course for dinner. Fuck.

"I am an independent, working woman, Mr Rothstein. I provide for my children, I volunteer at my church, and I feel that I have worked my way up through the social ladder on _my own terms _here in New York. Never again will I have a man patronise me, make me owe anything to him, when he shoves money in my direction. I refuse to live in a gilded cage. Now, if you'll excuse me – "

"No, no – STOP."

Rothstein had one hand held out to her, and his voice had become ragged. His eyes pleaded with her to stay. Margaret's face was inscrutable, and yet, she stayed.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

"My silence, my servitude, and my sex, Nucky all took with his money." Margaret sat straight-backed, but unless Rothstein was mistaken, her eyes had begun to glisten. "I defied him by giving away his money – to the church, mostly. I used to work with them as well, offering women's health classes. To try and make things right within myself, but really, I'm just as bad as one of those loose women. You're wrong, Mr Rothstein."

"I'm not. You have ethics. Pride, dignity. That's what I got wrong, and why… I'm alone. I have no one, Margaret. No one. I recognise you for what you are. My wife has left me, my old business associates, my… "

He had to stop. He couldn't go on. But Margaret was made of smarter stuff than most women.

"You don't want to trap me, or to love me. You just want a friend, because the person you loved is gone."

"Yes." Rothstein may have looked like he'd aged ten years, he had a mirror, he knew this. But at that moment, he felt lighter than he'd felt in months.

"Mine was Owen Sleater. Nucky's man."

"Yes. I'd met him." Rothstein had been impressed with Sleater's calm during Rosetti's outburst on New Year's Eve, and had been disappointed a man with such potential had met such a grisly end. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Mew." Meower was slinking around his chair legs, every now and then looking up, hopeful. Rothstein relented and allowed him to jump up onto his legs, Meower folding himself into a comfy position.

"Yes, well… I am no state to judge if you had a lover whilst you were married. We can't help who we love."

"But we can choose who we hurt. I have made such a mistake, Margaret. Mey – my sweetheart, they're still alive, they just hate me for what I did to them."

"Surely you could see her though? To tell her that you're regretful, and want to change?"

Rothstein drained his tea. It was now or never, but Margaret had more to lose than he did. A graceful lady she may be, but she was still a hat shop clerk. Rothstein's power had waned, but he still ruled all of Manhattan, and had a fortune men could only dream about.

"I couldn't tell … him, Margaret. But you could."

Author's Note

Bwum bwum BWAAAAAAAAHM! Tell me what you think of the Meyer/Rothstein pairing in the comments. Requited? Unrequited? Maybe Rothstein is bisexual? Maybe Meyer is straight? It could go every and either way, folks!

And I know this chapter seems like a lot of Nucky-bashing, but hopefully down the line I can write a chapter from his perspective. Let's face it, Rothstein and Margaret at this point in time aren't going to be exactly Team Nucky.


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